


The Beginning

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Episode Related, Gap Filler, Season/Series 05, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-11
Updated: 2005-05-11
Packaged: 2018-12-27 14:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12082713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Sort of a Pre-Gapfiller, if that sort of thing exists. Basically, this is how I want Season 5 to end.SPOILERS FOR SEASON 5!!!!





	The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

**Brian’s POV**  
I can hear my blood pounding in my ears as I storm out of the ER. Fuckers won’t take my blood. Michael might die and there’s not a goddamn motherfucking thing I can do to help! Somewhere in the back of my brain I know the fucking doctor is right, it’s too high-risk. Especially since it’s me, the Whore of Babylon. I fumble with my cigarettes, lighting one as I get in the back of my town car. It’s a good thing I didn’t bring the ‘vette – I’m in no condition to drive tonight. The driver asks me where we’re going. I don’t even hesitate.

“Babylon.”

“But Mr. Kinney – “

“I don’t fucking pay you to ask questions, I pay you to drive!” He nods and as the car heads downtown, I settle against the seat and try to calm down. Realistically, I know that won’t happen until I see him. Until I can touch him, really make sure he’s okay. I saw him briefly before they took Mikey away, and he told me to go. Watching the paramedics load my best friend into the back of the ambulance, I couldn’t help but flash back to the night of Justin’s prom, seeing him covered in his own blood and unconscious. I nearly lost him that night, and I could have lost him again tonight. I have got to get my act together, and stop fucking this up.

I take a drag from my cigarette. A few hours ago in this same car, my world was ending. The woman on the radio said the words “explosion” and “Babylon”, and I didn’t hear the rest. I got this feeling in the pit of my stomach, like… emptiness. Everyone I care about was in that club, and could be dead. My whole fucking family. Then when I got there, all I could think of was finding Justin. Jennifer told me he was still inside, and I swear I got tunnel vision. I didn’t see anything else but that door. I know now that it was stupid, but I was on auto-pilot and I headed straight for it, with one goal. Now I have that same feeling again, and I have to see him.

The town car pulls up, and I survey the scene. Most of the people are gone, but the police, firefighters, and paramedics are still there, as are all of the news crews. Fucking vultures. Then I see him. He’s over by one of the ambulances, getting his hand bandaged by a paramedic. He sees me, and it’s like a scene from a movie. We’re walking towards each other amid the flashing lights and remnants of smoke. Then he’s standing in front of me.

“Is Michael going to be all right?” His question stabs me in the gut, though I know he didn’t intend it to.

“They don’t know.”

He lowers his head, and we’re both silent for a moment. We’re both so overwhelmed by the events of the evening. Then our hands meet, and we do a little push-me-pull-you before I pull him against my chest. I can’t get him close enough – if I could, I would open up my skin and pull him inside me. I never want to let him go. I inhale his scent, and he smells like ashes and dirt, but he smells like himself at the same time. That’s what slows my heart rate, makes me able to breathe again.

“When I heard what happened,” I begin, “I tried calling your cell but you didn’t answer. I was so fucking scared. All I could think was, ‘please don’t let anything happen to him.’”

I pull back and just stare at him, taking him in, still not entirely believing that this is real. I want it to be a dream. I want the last few weeks to be a nightmare. I’ll wake up and the competition with Brandon, the syphilis, the break-up and the blast, it’ll all be gone. Justin will be beside me in our bed, drooling on my arm and hogging the duvet. 

I want that to be true, but it’s not. He left, and I don’t blame him. But he’s here now, standing in front of me. I can’t change the past, but I sure as fuck can influence the future, and I know what I have to do to have him in it. This is reality, and I have to face mine. I lean in close and whisper in his ear.

“I love you.” He pulls back and looks at me, one eyebrow raised questioningly, so I repeat it. “I love you.” 

I swear his smile lights up this alley more than flames and a thousand emergency lights ever could. I kiss him deeply, passionately, and for those few moments, I’m home.

***A few days later***

**Justin’s POV**  
He called this morning and asked me to come over to the loft. Told me that he wants us to be together again, but I don’t know. What if he’s just saying this because of the explosion? When the dust is settled (no pun intended), will he still feel the same? I love him, and I believe that he loves me too, but what if that’s not enough? I know what I want and frankly, if he can’t give it to me, then I’d rather be lonely than watch him fuck his way through the phone book.

I told him as much, and somehow we ended up in the ‘vette. I guess that’s better than ending up in bed, which is how our arguments usually end – skipping the make-up part and going straight to the make-up sex. 

I have no idea where we’re going, and he won’t tell me. All I know is that we’re not in Pittsburgh anymore, Toto. We’re in the country, about twenty minutes outside the city limits. The scenery is beautiful, and I’m content to just watch it go by out the window. It’s not like I have anything else to do today. 

Before long, we arrive at what I assume is our destination. It’s a massive white house with a wrap around porch, flower beds in front and a massive yard in the back. 

In short, it’s a fucking nice house.

“Who lives here?” I ask, following him up to the door. He produces a key, and brandishes it at me.

“We do.”

I’m confused. He unlocks the door and goes in. I hesitate, then follow him.

“We who?” I pose the question as I’m looking around. The place is empty, but the rooms are spectacular. High ceilings, hardwood floors…. 

“Justin.” He has my attention now. If I could only hear one sound for the rest of my life, it would be the sound of him saying my name. “This… thing we’ve been doing the past few weeks is fucked. I’ve been a shit head, I know.” He’s right, he has. I wait for him to continue. “Let’s stop fucking around. We want to be together, so let’s be together.”

I’m getting annoyed now. “Brian, I don’t know what I can say that I haven’t already said. We want different things. You want a revolving door, and I want forever. The two don’t work together.” I start to head for the door, but he catches me by the arm. I turn around to face him, and the look on his face stops me cold.

“Just you and me. No more tricks. No more bullshit.”

My defiant shield flickers. I never thought he’d offer me that.

“Are you sure you can do that? I don’t want you resenting me a few months down the road because you can’t fuck some hot guy you see.”

He slides his arms around my neck and nuzzles my ear. “Who could be hotter than my husband?”

I freeze, then pull back to look at him.

“Your what?”

He’s biting his lip, the same way he did at Pride when he asked me to dance. Heart on sleeve, vulnerable to attack.

“Marry me. I know I can do this. We can have the most fabulous fag wedding the world has ever seen, planned by our very own Mr. Honeycutt of course, and afterwards we’ll grow…” he scrunches up his nose at this part “…old and grey together.”

I grin and poke him gently. “Some of us faster than others! So… you mean it?” 

He nods. “Whaddaya think? Ready to be the only one I fuck for the rest of my life?”

“Hmmm. That depends. Are you ready to be surrounded by art supplies all day long and to endure a closet full of cargo pants?”

He ponders this for a moment. “As long as you take them off for me on a regular basis, I think I’ll live.”

I laugh and pull him down for a kiss. We’re leaning together, our entire bodies touching, including our foreheads. “Then I accept.” 

“Yeah?” he whispers. 

“Yeah. Brian Kinney, I will marry you.” 

***A few weeks later***

Emmett and I are going over flower arrangements at the loft. I didn’t waste much time moving back in with Brian. I couldn’t wait to get out of that shit hole apartment – it was worse than Ethan’s! Except that it didn’t have Ethan in it, so I guess it can’t be that bad. But I digress.

This place has become Wedding Planner Central. There are pictures and brochures all over the place. Em and I had a cake tasting the other day, which Brian categorically refused to take part in. He said we both have to fit into our Armani, so we shouldn’t be too indulgent. Emmett suggested a pineapple cake, because pineapple is supposed to make your jizz taste sweet. I guess we’ll find out whether that’s true or not!

Brian’s pretty much letting me handle everything except the clothes. He’s picking both of our tuxes, as well as one for Michael, who’s going to be his best man, and a dress for Daphne, who will be my maid of honor. Brian keeps calling her my bridesmaid, but I make him blow me every time he does, so I don’t mind too much.

I’m a little worried about him. Ever since the proposal, Brian’s been… different. Like he’s trying to please me, which is great, but somehow he’s trying too hard. For instance, I’ve topped him twice this week alone! Something’s definitely wrong with this picture. I mean, looking around me, the loft is looking really… lesbianic. 

I’m starting to wonder if maybe this wedding is a bad idea…. 

My train of thought is derailed by the tinny sound of “Goin’ to the Chapel” that seems to be emanating from my pocket. What the fuck? I reach in and pull out my cell phone, the source of my confusion. 

“Emmett, have you been playing with my phone again?” He just grins and kisses my cheek as I answer.

“Hello?”

“Justin Taylor?”

“This is he.”

“This is Graeme Cook calling from the Sullivan Street Gallery in New York. I saw some of your work at the Sidney Bloom Gallery, and I would like to invite you to come to New York for a meeting. Would you be interested?”

Fuck yeah! Of course, I don’t say that. Instead I say, “Of course I’d love to! When would you like to do it?”

“As soon as possible. Our board of directors has expressed interest in showing several of your pieces.”

Their board of directors has expressed interest in… my pieces? Holy fuck! Breathe, Taylor. Think. Visualize your schedule. Okay. Wedding prep, then wedding in three weeks, then two-week honeymoon. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. 

“Um, I could come in about six weeks.”

“Oh dear. Six weeks? No sooner than that?” He sounds distressed. Shit. I don’t want to fuck this up. I hear the loft door open and close, but it barely registers, I’m so focused on this call.

“Uh, well…” I stutter. Nice, Taylor. Way to impress him with your verbal skills. “Maybe I can work something out. Can I call you back?” I write down his number, say good bye and hang up. When I turn around, Brian is standing there, briefcase still in hand, and eyebrows raised at me. 

“Who was that?” he asks.

“Oh, just a… guy from a gallery…” I know I sound like an idiot, but my brain is not really with me at the moment. 

“In Pittsburgh?”

“In New York.” 

I watch as a smile spreads across his face. “Good for you, Sunshine. So when does he want to make you famous?”

“That’s the problem,” I sigh. “He wants me to come in the next few weeks.” I wait for a response. I have to wait a long time, because Brian is apparently waiting for something too. Finally he speaks.

“So?”

“So we’re getting married soon! There’s all sorts of stuff left to plan!”

“It’s nothing Emmett can’t handle! Right, Honeycutt?”

Emmett jumps in. “Absolutely! You go charm the pants off them in New York, and I’ll do what needs to be done here. Actually, don’t charm the pants off them, or your hubby-to-be might have to kill them.” Then he starts to tear up. He does that a lot lately, something about watching his “little boys” grow up. I hand him a tissue, and he blows his nose. I turn to Brian.

“Are you sure?”

“Justin, it’s only for a few days. Go call him back before he leaves for the day.”

“Thank you.” I plant a kiss on his lips, then I grab my phone and make the call.

***One week later***

**Brian’s POV**  
I’m worried about Justin. He just got back from New York, and there’s something he hasn’t told me. I don’t want to push him, though. I want him to tell me on his own.

We’re eating Thai takeout in the loft. Our house isn’t ready yet, and we’ve decided to move in when we get back from our honeymoon in Ibiza. It’s one less thing to stress about right now. Speaking of which, I decide to broach the subject of his New York trip.

“So, did everything go well at the gallery?”

He swallows his mouthful of pad thai as he’s reaching for the box of coconut shrimp. I swear, one day the Smithsonian will have an exhibit dedicated solely to his metabolism.

“Yeah, it’s a great gallery! It’s big, but not too big, you know? Still small enough to feel personal. And Graeme seemed really interested! I brought my portfolio and left him a few photos of some of my work to show the board of directors. He said he’d call in a few days with their verdict.” He pops a piece of shrimp in his mouth.

I study him. He’s still hiding something. Fuck it, I want to know now. “Spit it out,” I say. He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Not the shrimp, the secret.”

“It’s nothing,” he mumbles.

“Then tell me.”

He looks up at me, searching my face for something. Whether he finds it or not, I don’t know, but he decides to tell me. “It’s just something Graeme said about moving to New York.” My stomach clenches. 

“What did he say?”

“That it would be better for my career than staying in Pittsburgh.”

“He’s right, you know. The Pitts isn’t exactly an artistic Mecca.”

He starts to get up from the floor, where we’ve been having our little picnic. 

“Don’t start, Brian.” 

“Don’t start what?” I follow him to the kitchen.

“Pushing me away! Listen to me, Brian. Are you listening?” I nod. “It’s my decision, and I choose to be with you! If you don’t like it, too fucking bad! I’m not going anywhere!” He’s shouting at me now, getting all red. He turns away, and I wrap my arms around him from behind.

“Neither am I. I just don’t want you denying yourself the chance to be successful on account of me. You need to really think about this.” 

He sniffles. “This is so fucked,” he says quietly. “We’re so fucked.”

Okay, now I’m starting to worry. I know he’s not talking about bedroom activities. I turn him around in my arms.

“What are you talking about?”

He leans his head on my shoulder. “This whole wedding thing. We’ve gotten so wrapped up in it, that I think we’ve forgotten how to be us. I’m barely thinking about art if it’s not incorporated into a napkin ring design, and you… well, look at your loft.” He gestures to the main area of the loft, which is indeed covered with wedding things.

“Our loft,” I correct him.

“Our loft,” he smiles and kisses my chin. “The point is, I miss you. I miss us. I miss leaving clothes all over the place and having you yell at me to pick them up. I miss not hearing you yelling, because I’m concentrating on a sketch. I miss you going on about how we’re never going to be domestic like dykes or breeders, and then calling to ask me to pick up your dry cleaning.”

“So… what are you saying?” My heart is pounding, though I’m not sure why. I guess he can feel it, because he’s running his fingers through my hair soothingly.

He takes a deep breath, and lets it out. “I’m saying… maybe we don’t need all this stuff.” He gestures to the wedding mess again. “We don’t need rings or public vows or… matching Vera Wangs… to know how much we love each other. You don’t believe in marriage, and seeing my parents’ example, I’m not sure I do either. But I believe in love… and commitment…”

“… And fucking,” I supply. He laughs.

“Definitely that too. So, what do you say we call it off?” I pause, and think about it. It’s not a bad idea. He’s right, I never was a big fan of weddings or marriage.

“Is that what you want?” We’re looking each other in the eye now.

“Will you love me any less?” I shake my head. 

“Never.” He nods slowly.

“Then this is what I want.” 

“What about the honeymoon?” 

“Oh, we’re still going! Fuck knows we’ve earned it, with all the aborted holidays we’ve had. Oh, and by the way, we won’t be having a traditional wedding night. Instead, you’ll have to fuck me several times per night, for every day leading up to our departure. So let’s get started.”

I grin as he grabs my hand, and as he’s leading me towards the bedroom, maneuvering around the piles of wedding shit, I feel as if a huge weight has been lifted off my chest.

**Justin’s POV**  
My Brian is back, and I couldn’t be happier. In true Kinney fashion, he decided that we’re keeping up the wedding charade until the rehearsal dinner, which is where we’ll make the big announcement, just before heading off on our “honeymoon” a day early. 

I can already imagine how the family will react. They’ll all start yelling about Fucking Brian, except for Michael, who will defend Brian to his grave. The only one we’ve told is Emmett, because he had to cancel a lot of the orders. Oh, and I told Daphne, but only because I tell her everything. I had to spend an hour reassuring her that she would still get to keep her dress. No tacky bridesmaid’s dress for her, no siree. Brian, who I sometimes think loves her more than he loves me, bought her a gorgeous couture gown. She doesn’t seem to have noticed that since there won’t be a wedding, she’ll have nowhere to wear it.

The other thing he’s been doing is slightly annoying. He’s leaving printouts from New York real estate websites all over the place. I throw them in the paper recycling, and he fishes them out. Lately he’s been circling or highlighting some of the features of the apartments and condos. “Large shower”, “skylight”, “rooftop access”, “private balcony”. It’s really starting to piss me off. I’ve already told him a million times that I’m not going anywhere. It’s time to put an end to this.

**Brian’s POV**  
He must have heard the elevator, because when I open the gate, he’s there in the loft doorway waiting. 

“Hi, honey!” I say in that mocking tone. I lean down for a kiss and he doesn’t disappoint. He steps back so I can enter the loft, and waits until the door is closed to ambush me.

“What’s this?” he demands. I glance at him as I take off my jacket and loosen my tie. Ah, so we’re doing this now.

“Looks like an apartment listing,” I reply. I’m aiming for nonchalance. 

“And these?” He holds up a stack of similar papers.

“More of the same.” 

“Why are you doing this? Are you punishing me because I called off the wedding? Is that it?”

“You didn’t call off the wedding, we did. And no, I’m not punishing you. When we get back from Ibiza, I think you should go to New York.” He’s looking at me like I just shot his puppy. Fuck, I hate that look. Even worse, I hate knowing that I caused it. 

“What about you?”

“Justin, how long have you known me?”

“Too long,” he mutters, and I grin.

“Love you too, Sunshine. And for the eons that you’ve known me, where’s the one place I’ve wanted to move?” I watch as the implication of my question dawns across his face. 

“New York!” I nod. 

“Go for a few weeks. If you love it, I’ll join you. If not, you can come back.”

“What about Kinnetik?” he asks.

“It’s an ad agency, Sunshine. My business is just as portable as yours.”

“Gus? The family?”

“Mel and Lindz are taking the kids to Canada anyway, so no matter where I am, I won’t see Gus as much. As for the rest of them, it’s New York, not Siberia. We can come back for holidays and visits, or they could come see us.”

He’s looking at me, and I can see the wheels turning in his mind as he mulls it over. 

“Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll go to New York.”

***Two months later***

**Justin’s POV**  
These past few weeks have been the best of my life. First there was the rehearsal dinner. We made the announcement at the end of the dinner, so we could high-tail it out of there. The family reacted pretty much the way I expected they would. Lots of cursing and name-calling directed at Brian, but I told them that it was my idea, and that I hoped they would understand, but that ultimately I didn’t care, because it was between me and Brian. That shut them up pretty quickly. 

Anyway, we gave them two weeks to cool off while we baked in the Ibiza sun. Those two weeks alone were worth all the shit that Brian and I have been through. Two weeks of just us. No friends or family demanding attention, no work, Brian didn’t even bring so much as a cell phone. I did catch him a few times on the phone in our room checking in with Cynthia, but on the whole he behaved amazingly. It was all so… at the risk of sounding like a lesbian, magical. 

But now the honeymoon is over, both literally and figuratively. A week after we got back, I left for New York. Graeme Cook wanted me here right away, because the gallery is putting on a show about modern political protest art, and they’re using my old anti-Stockwell posters. The show opens in a few weeks, and I have a lot to do. They’re promoting the hell out of it, so there are interviews and photo ops galore. Graeme is talking about giving me my own show, once this one is done!

Brian and I have been talking on the phone every day, sometimes multiple times. Plus we send each other text messages, emails, instant messages… we each got a web cam, which definitely makes some of those online sessions a lot more interesting! 

I’ve decided I love New York. I love the sights, the smells, the sounds, the people, the culture, the Park, the honking horns, all of it. Tonight on the phone I told him that I think I want to stay. He told me that Mel and Lindz left yesterday with Gus and Jenny, so all that was left was packing up Kinnetik and the loft, and selling the house that we never moved into. I know he’ll ask Cynthia to relocate with the company, and I also know it won’t take much for her to say yes.

***The next morning***

I’m sitting on the balcony of the condo that Brian and I selected and bought together, sketching the skyline. It’s peaceful, and I can tell I’m going to be spending a lot of time out here. I hear the buzzer inside, so I get up and answer it.

“Yes?”

“UPS here with a delivery for Mr. Justin Taylor.” 

“Apartment 523, come on up.” I press the button to let him in the front door, and wait. When he gets here, I automatically check him out – force of habit. He’s nothing special, so I sign for the envelope and shut the door behind him. Ripping it open, I pull out a single piece of paper.

It’s a photocopy of a Liberty Air booking confirmation. Passenger Kinney in business class, Pittsburgh to La Guardia, arriving in four days. 

One way. 

***Four days later***

I’m at the Arrivals gate, waiting impatiently. It’s been almost a month since I’ve seen him! Web cam images and dirty pictures in emails don’t count. 

A moment later, there he is. My legs start moving of their own will, and suddenly I’m in his arms. I don’t give a fuck about the scandalized breeders, all I can do is kiss him. Apparently that’s all he can do too. 

We stay joined at the lips for a minute or a year, I’m not sure which. Finally, I need oxygen, and I’m forced to let go. It’s then that I look down at his luggage.

“Why is there only one bag?” Shouldn’t there be more? I mean, it’s Brian Kinney. The man is a clothes horse! He can’t possibly be moving with just one suitcase. Was I wrong? Is he just coming for a visit and going back soon? Shit.

“Relax, Sunshine.” He kisses my temple. “Cynthia’s packing up the loft and sending the rest of our stuff. I decided I couldn’t wait to get here, so I asked her to do it.”

My heart rate slows as I realize that I have everything I ever wanted. I give him the smile that earned me my nickname, and take his hand.

“Come on. Let’s go home.”  
**********

As we make out in the back seat of the cab on the way to our (yes, our!) new apartment, I have a revelation: I thought that leaving Pittsburgh would be the end of something, but it’s not.

It’s the beginning.


End file.
